One Week Before

Captain's Log, Stardate 45223.4:

The Enterprise has received a distress call from a remote scientific station upon the planet Phaedra in the Xerxes system. The message was from Mikal Tillstrom, son of Dr. Adrienne Tillstrom, a xenogeologist of note. The distress call was patchy and disrupted by some electromagnetic phenomenon, which is not surprising. Xerxes is known for its odd electromagnetic fields. Enough of the message came through, however, to establish that some sort of disaster has overtaken Science Station 146, and emergency aid is sought. Then the message was disrupted and ended.

I have ordered the Enterprise on a course and heading that will take us to Xerxes in a day and a half. Rescue operations are being prepared.

I know Dr. Adrienne Tillstrom, though I have not seen her in many years. She is a fine person as well as a brilliant scientist. I only hope that we can save her and her son from whatever catastrophe has occurred.

The sun shone down from a clear blue sky, pleasant and warm on Will Riker's back. In the near distance, breakers crashed on the shore, spume filling the air with a fine, salty tang. Sea gulls hovered above the sea, occasionally darting down for fish, and the breeze was just right to cool the players and not compromise the game.

"Here you go, Will," said Geordi, grinning in bathing suit and bare feet. He tossed his friend the white inflated ball, and Riker caught it easily. Geordi pointed at the net above the sand held up by two aluminum poles. "The idea is to boink the ball over that black mesh thing over there, but not past the tennis shoe markers."

Riker glared at the engineer. The last two times he'd served, he'd fouled out by hitting the ball too hard. As he was a fine-caliber sportsman of many games, the two foul-outs had been particularly galling.

"Yes, Will," said Deanna Troi, a laugh in her voice. "Just get the ball over and we'll cover for you the rest of the way."

"Cease the bickering, hit the ball, and accept the eventual defeat that we shall mete out!" growled Worf from the other side of the net amongst the opposition. Will Riker rued the day he'd suggested that the Klingon try his hand at volleyball. Reluctance had rapidly melted away, to be replaced with a flashing warrior in kneepads, shorts, and T-shirt.

"Right," said Riker.

He lobbed the ball up and then pounded it over the net. Clean, crisp, and deadly, the ball caught an ensign unawares, bounced off an outstretched palm, and rolled away toward the illusion of waves in the background.

Worf snarled and gave chase.

"Pardon me, Commander," said Data, some yards away, still in uniform, observing the game.

"Yes, Data?" said Riker, accepting the kudos of his team and bowing mockingly to the opposing team.

"As I have said before, I mastered the rules of the game long ago...."

"Yeah!" said Geordi. "And it's a damned shame you can't compete with us in the play-offs at Rigel II, Data. We'd win in an instant!"

Data cocked his head in bemusement. "But that would be unfair, Geordi. I would be able to exercise far more skill than a human."

Deanna Troi laughed, her curly, dark hair loose and draped down across the top of her turquoise one-piece bathing suit. "I think that's what Geordi means. He'd like to win the match by hook or by crook. It will take you a while longer, I think, to understand the importance of competition to younger, hormonally charged human males." She winked at Geordi, who simply shrugged.

Still bemused, Data turned back to Will Riker. "In any case, Commander, my question is: Why do you choose to play on a fabrication of a beach on a holodeck when it does not comply with the environment of regulation volleyball competition?"

"Well, we practice in such a court as well, Data, you know...." Riker looked around at the absolutely splendid day. "As for why... Well, because it's fun!"

"Fun." The android nodded, his amber eyes gleaming. He seemed to absorb the information, but still not totally understand it. "I confess, the human preoccupation with absorbing harmful solar rays beside a briny body of water while playing on abrasive sand and rock is most fascinating."

Geordi said, "Maybe it's because our ancestors crawled out of the ocean with bottles of suntan lotion, wearing sunglasses, Data."

Data raised his eyebrows. "Ah! An excellent juxtaposition of incongruity, Geordi. A good joke, yes. Still, perhaps if I study your reactions here today, I will understand better."

"Believe me, Data," said Troi. "You don't want to. Just call it a custom and be happy with that."

"Heads up, opponents!" called a deep voice, and a ball came flying toward Riker. He turned only just in time to catch the volleyball sailing his way at enormous speed. Worf hustled to resume his place amongst his team. "Serve again, and prepare for defeat." Worf looked particularly odd in swimming trunks, thought Riker.

Riker hit the ball directly at Wolf, and immediately saw the move was a mistake. The Klingon leapt up into the air, snarling as though in battle. He pounded the ball back across the net so hard and at such a steep angle, the opposing team could do nothing to stop it. The ball spiked down into the sand.

Hands on hips, Worf called over to his opposition. "Our serve, I think."

The audience broke into applause.

As the other team moved around to take their places, setting up to serve, a man in full uniform stepped out from the crowd.

"A most curious game, Number One," said Jean-Luc Picard stiffly, brushing sand off his jacket with distaste and squinting, clearly not enjoying the bright sun of this holodeck scenario.

"Captain, you should join us sometime!" said Troi, holding up her hands toward the other team to signal a time-out.

"Riding, fencing, a few other sports -- those are my diversions. And of course, curling up with a good book. Alas, team sports are just not my cup of tea," said Picard.

"Well, I hope you are there to root for us in the Federation competition," she said, still smiling but clearly taken aback by the abrupt response.

"Perhaps. I shall make an effort. But that's neither here nor there. Number One, I trust this game is not going to last much longer."

"We shall finish it shortly, I promise, Captain!" Worf growled, digging in on the other side of the fence, baring his teeth for fierce competition.

"That would be good of you, Lieutenant. I need to call a counsel in my ready room."

"Certainly, Captain. Do we have time to shower?" said Riker, sensing the seriousness of the matter.

"Yes. I wish to discuss the situation on Xerxes, and we will not be arriving there until tomorrow, so we have a little time left, I think." He joined his hands behind his back and examined the tennis shoe markers and gazed at the bent poles and slightly frayed net.

"Tell me. This game..."

"Volleyball, sir," said Riker.

"Yes. 'Volleyball.' It hardly seems the pinnacle of achievement in Earth-derived sports. Surely there are other more sophisticated and challenging sports to occupy you." He looked around. "And on a beach?"

Troi seemed to sense the captain's light tone. "It's fun, Captain!"

Riker shrugged. "It's something to do in groups where everybody gets to participate. We're also practicing here to represent the Enterprise in that competition."

" 'Team spirit' is the term, I believe, Captain," put in Data. "A mass psychological tool for a cohesive sense of community amongst disparate civilized beings."

It was clear to Riker that the captain was a bit bemused at the notion of "team spirit." Picard certainly valued teamwork, in textbook as well as real form. But Riker knew that while his family was stomping grapes in their vineyards, young Jean-Luc either had his head in books or in the stars. His sense of achievement was more personal.

Deanna Troi said, "Very true, Captain, and seeing as we're all a bit tense as to what may be awaiting us, I suggested that we have our practice in a relaxing atmosphere."

"Very good, Counselor. I bow to your wisdom as always. My ready room, Counselor, when it is convenient."

"Yes sir."

Picard nodded and strode away.

"Say, are you guys ready or what?" called a member of the other team.

"Tell me, empath," asked Riker. "Do you sense dissolution and fear amongst the opposition?"

"No, actually, I sense confidence and determination in them all, except for Worf."

"Worf?"

"Yes. He seems to be serving, and he wants blood."

"Prepare yourselves, opponents!" rumbled the Klingon behind the service line. He growled and proceeded to hit the ball so hard to Riker, it seemed as though he wanted to puncture it.